Amaranthine
by DeliriumDescending
Summary: He has loved her since their first meeting when he was little more than a dying boy and she the Goddess that healed him. [Fem!Harry/Godric]
1. Chapter 1

Amaranthine  
Chapter One

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own Harry Potter or True Blood.

 **General** **Warnings** : Fem!Harry (Helen, in this story); time-traveling!Harry; Soul Mate/Soul Mark AU; language; potential violence; etc.

 **Summary** : He has loved her since their first meeting when he was little more than a dying boy and she the Goddess that healed him.

 **Author's** **Notes** : Daaaaamn, Delirium, back at it again with the Fem!Harry x Godric pairing...

I thought I might try my hand at writing drabbles. However, I didn't want it to be literally just one drabble (exactly one hundred words) per chapter; as much as I enjoy them, I read fast, so chapters done like that tend to be over in a blink for me. Instead, this and future chapters will be collections of drabbles; I'm going to try and aim for ten drabbles (1,000 words) for each chapter.

[-][-][-]

Helen Potter had a problem.

This wasn't a new thing for her; her life had been plagued with problems from the very start – prophecies involving murderous Dark Lords, anyone?

But this… This was a new one.

Not the time travel itself, or even that it had happened, but the _way_ it had.

One moment, she'd been strolling along the beach and the next, she was being ushered into a village that had most certainly _not_ been there fifteen minutes ago – and she would know considering it was located right where her bloody villa was. Was supposed to be. Would be?

.

Protests, she found as she was herded through the village, were useless.

The people playing well-meaning sheep dog weren't speaking any language she recognized; it certainly wasn't English, and while she wasn't as fluent in French as Hermione, she knew enough to know that whatever language they were chattering at her with _wasn't_ it.

She wasn't even sure if a translation spell would work on a language as old as this one seemed to be.

Figuring something was better than nothing, Helen cast a quick, non-verbal translation spell while the crowd was otherwise occupied.

It wasn't perfect, but it'd do.

.

The mass of people around her as she was led to the largest dwelling made the village seem more crowded than it likely was; she'd say a hundred people lived here, maybe a little past that.

An eager call from one of those in front of her had a man stepping from the shelter they'd stopped before, his expression one of warring hope and disbelief.

The man who had called before spoke, a rushed explanation that she couldn't hear a word of, though the meaning was clearly hinted at given the almost reverent way he gestured to her.

Oh, bollocks.

.

Dumbledore and Tom's soul fragment hadn't been the only ones she'd seen in King's Cross.

Someone – something? – else had been there, had stood behind her as she spoke with Dumbledore, had combed Its fingers through her midnight hair, had whispered Its own explanation into her ear, Its words weaving in and out of Dumbledore's own.

And at the end of the conversation with Dumbledore, she had disappeared from his sight; but not because she had returned so quickly to life.

Death had wrapped her in Its arms, Its cloak hiding her from view.

And Death spoke.

" _You are mine. Always."_

.

Ever since she'd returned to life, Helen had been able to _sense_ things, specifically their endings. In less polite terms: she knew when it was time for someone to die. At first, it had been maddening, the constant tingle at the edge of her mind; it had kept her in a state of anxious paranoia for weeks until she'd learnt to ignore it.

So, she _knew_ that all things had their time; that everything must someday end.

But standing at the bedside of a little boy as he lay dying _from a cold_ , of all things…

She couldn't accept that.

.

They thought her a Goddess, or perhaps a daughter of the Ocean, sent to heal the only son of the chieftain after days of prayer and pleas.

Given her appearance on the beach and how she was dressed, it wasn't all that surprising.

She was here for a reason; maybe, if she healed him, she'd return to her time?

On her knees at the boy's side, one hand smoothing back his sweat-dampened hair, she looked to his parents and smiled.

"It'll be alright."

Even if they didn't understand her words, they understood her tone. An invisible weight lifted from them.

.

There was something about the boy, she thought to herself later that night as she remained awake at his side. Something about him that called to her, that made her stomach drop, her heart clench, her very being balk at the thought of him dying.

She didn't know how many years lay between this time and her own –thousands? Certainly hundreds – and in this moment, didn't care; all she cared about was that he lived.

Something inside of her _needed_ him to live, needed him to survive, as if she would be irrevocably changed if she failed this self-given task.

.

For three days, she stayed at his side. Running her fingers through his hair, washing away the sweat, humming until her voice grew hoarse to soothe his feverish dreams. His parents wandered in and out, but often left her to her own devices and thoughts.

The cold, nasty as it was, could have been cured by the first night if it had been on its own, nothing a good dose of Pepper-Up couldn't fix. But, on a hunch, she'd cast the diagnostic charm a second time and found the weakness in his lungs.

So, she set about fixing that too.

.

Five days after she had unwittingly stumbled back through time, the feeling of being watched had Helen's eyes snapping open to find a pair of stormy gray-blue staring back.

Her patient had finally woken up and judging by the intensity of his stare, he seemed just as fascinated with her as she was with him. He spoke, but by the time her sleep addled brain realized the translation charm had faded in her sleep, his parents had woken and exclaimed joyfully at seeing their son awake.

Forgotten in the flurry of words, Helen recast the translation charm and sat back.

.

If she'd thought the amount of gratitude she'd received for curing his cold had been overwhelming, it was nothing compared to when they realized she had also healed his lungs. Uncomfortable in the face of their awe and reverent thanks, Helen allowed the boy to pull her away from the adults.

She followed him contently, letting him lead her around and through the village as he chattered to her in a broken mix of English and his native language.

She still had no idea how she'd ended up sitting and allowing him to play with and braid her hair, though.

.

She woke in her own bed, arms empty of the child that had fallen asleep in them. ' _That's that_ ,' she thought, and mourned that she would never see the little boy who'd so fascinated her ever again.

Much later, she rose from her bed and stumbled to the bathroom, shucking her clothes along the way.

A bath would make everything better. As the tub filled, she reached for her brush to untangle her hair, absently glancing in the mirror as she did.

She froze, breathless.

Foreign letters, carefully formed, were inscribed in the skin above her heart.

 _A soul mark._

[-][-][-]

For some reason, I've been having trouble with the horizontal line/divider not showing up, so I've started including my own divider just in case anyone else has been having the same issue.

Yay, a new story! This'll be fun, don't you think? :]

-D.


	2. Chapter 2

**Amaranthine**  
Chapter Two

 **Summary** : He has loved her since their first meeting when he was little more than a dying boy and she the Goddess that healed him.

 **Author's** **Notes** : Safe to say that the majority of the content in this chapter - and likely the story, lets be honest - is head cannon. Godric is also a possessive little shit for only being about five years old... Also, the different tenses between the first chapter and this one are on purpose.

* * *

[~][~][~]

As a boy, he is a burden on his family.

He knows this to be true.

He is not the healthiest child in the tribe. From birth his lungs are weak and his body frail. He is prone to violent coughing fits that appear as quickly and easily as the breeze changes direction. He cannot run through the fields around the village with the other boys; he cannot clamber up trees to pick fruit or down to where water touches land to scavenge for shells.

The head shaman tells him he is lucky to have been born breathing at all.

.

The tribe whispers about him.

Some, including his parents, say he is a gift, that he is blessed by the Ocean God. Others say he walks with Death because while he is the first born, he was not the only.

Once, he had a twin. But the burden of carrying them both was too much and when they were born – small, underdeveloped and far too early – his twin was already dead and he struggled for every breath.

His mother wept; his father prayed.

And one day, as strange markings etched themselves into his skin, his breathing eased.

And he lived.

.

He is not like the other boys. He knows this.

Physically, he cannot keep up with them, so he finds other ways to help. He is quick to learn, only needing to be shown things once before he's off doing them on his own. He enjoys numbers, enjoys carefully sorting through materials, enjoys listening as the elders organize the tribe for the changing seasons, as if the task is a riddle they are trying to solve, or a puzzle.

He really enjoys puzzles, the challenge and strategy, enjoys fine-tuning until things fit perfectly.

Best of all, he's _good_ at it.

.

His mind easily rivals that of those many years his elder, he knows this.

That doesn't keep his body from betraying him.

He is in his fifth summer when he is struck with an illness that has him bedbound within hours. It's harder than usual to breathe; he shudders with cold then sweats with fever from one minute to the next. He cannot keep anything down, not even the water he so desperately craves.

His parents pray by his side. He wonders if this is dying.

It's through will alone he lives long enough for their prayers to be answered.

.

Something deep within him – his soul, he thinks – wrenches him from the depths of a restful darkness and into a delirious sort of wakefulness.

A woman with hair dark as night kneels at his side, dressed in a robe of pure billowing white so fine it is almost sheer in the light radiating around her. Starlight hangs from her ears. Power swirls beneath her skin, barely contained. Her eyes glow strangely in the darkness of the hut.

She reaches towards him. He mumbles something incomprehensible. Darkness pulls him back under.

 _She is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen._

.

He drifts in that place between dreams and waking, where neither time nor reality has any meaning.

A soft, pleasant voice is singing in a foreign language above him and a part of him is distantly excited. Perhaps the Goddess – because there is no doubt in him that that is what She is; he knows it in his bones that She is _More_ , She is _Divine_ – can read the strange markings imprinted in the skin between his hipbones since birth.

He wants to open his eyes and see Her again, but he is so very tired…

He sleeps once more.

.

She is resting when he wakes, truly wakes, feeling better than he ever has before. He knows not how long he's slept, only that it is midmorning and the noise of the tribe busy outside the hut seems distant and muted.

The Goddess is curled on her side, her face turned towards him; her hair spans the short distance between them, the ends just barely brushing his fingers. He doesn't resist the temptation and wraps the ends of her midnight hair around his fingers, marveling at the softness against his hands.

Happiness washes over him at even this smallest contact.

.

It seems like no time at all has passed since he woke when the Goddess's eyes snap open to meet his.

He remembers how her eyes had gleamed in the shadow of the hut when he first saw her; the pale, cold green glow had been frightening, bringing to mind the fear he felt whenever his breathing grew too labored.

But now… Now, in the midday light trickling through the hut entrance, her eyes are a deep, vivid emerald. The green of new grass, of new leaves on the fruit trees; the green of spring, of _Life_.

He is mesmerized.

.

His parents, caught up in their joy at his full recovery, bring him from the hut into the sunshine – and straight into a cloud of dust that has many times in the past been the cause of his episodes. He tenses, waiting for the coughing to start, for the terrifying feeling on drowning on dry land to begin… But it never comes.

Nearby, The Goddess watches him carefully, cautiously, as if waiting for something but hoping against it; the expression slowly fades though and suddenly he _knows_.

She has done more than cure his illness. She has healed him completely.

.

The gratitude from him, his parents, his entire tribe makes Her uncomfortable, makes her shift uneasily and strains her smile. He doesn't like that, doesn't like the faked expression, so he leads her from the crowd.

He guides her through the village, chattering to her and reveling in being able to walk more than a dozen feet without being short of breath. The greater the time and distance between them and the gathering, the more she relaxes, the more genuine her smile is.

He's pleased when She even allows him to play with her hair, this time with her knowledge.

.

For the next two days, he follows Her around the village, trailing behind her like a duckling. He watches as She helps with the tasks readying for the seasons change, watches Her interact with his tribemates and feels no small sense of pride that he is the only one she treats so fondly.

He is the only one She allows to brush Her hair, to hold her hand.

That night he happily shares his blankets once more and as he drifts to sleep wrapped in Her arms and surrounded by Her scent, he knows he is in love with Her.

.

She is gone when he wakes.

In the days following her disappearance, he wanders listlessly through the village, following the paths they'd taken. He feels… Lost. He doesn't know what to do.

In body, he is strong, healthier than he's ever been. But something inside of him, his soul, feels incomplete.

He wants to see Her again. He knows this much.

A few days later, he enters training to become the next Shaman. The Shaman himself is the only one not surprised, only remarks that it is fitting that one touched by the "power of God" do so.

Godric smiles.

[~][~][~]

* * *

As I said in the author's note, a lot of this - Godric having a stillborn twin, being born with weak lungs/likely asthma, but having a high IQ/potential genius - is head cannon. On an unrelated note, I've been debating practically all night on if I want to change the title of this story. 'Amaranthine' still fits and I do enjoy it; it's just that while writing this chapter, I've basically had "Shed A Light" by Robin Schulz & David Guetta & Cheat Codes playing on repeat. In my mind, the lyrics can/do describe Godric's feelings later in the story when he starts to evolve and become depressed. We'll see how things go, though. Maybe I'm considering it just because I'm obsessed with the song at the moment.

Here's to hoping you enjoyed this chapter and that the next one doesn't take me as long to get out!

-D.


	3. Chapter 3

**Amaranthine**

Chapter Three

 **Summary:** He has loved her since their first meeting when he was little more than a dying boy and she the Goddess that healed him.

 **Author's Notes:** Because I've been gone _forever_ , this chapter is a double-feature.

* * *

[~][~][~]

Soul marks were one of those topics in the magical world that were considered common knowledge but were never discussed in detail. No one liked to admit that they didn't know much about the mysterious marks that appeared on witches and wizards throughout history, that they didn't know why they existed or how they came to be, only that they did.

There were theories and plenty of essays arguing one way or another. The only thing that researchers - Light, Dark, and Gray alike - agreed on was that soul marks were rare and the sign of a great destiny.

.

Of course, they didn't seem rare when practically every seventh magical mentioned in the history texts had a soul mark, but it was the truth. The sheer commonality of them was relative, seen only when looking back over the thousands and thousands of years of magical history.

Merlin had had a soul mark; Morgan le Fay did too. As did the Hogwarts' Founding Four.

And now, so did she.

Helen groaned, sinking further into the water of her bath. As if being the Chosen One hadn't been bad enough, now she had to deal with another 'great destiny'?

Why her?

.

"Why do these things always happen to you?"

As she'd always done when she needed more information and didn't know where to start, Helen had called Hermione. Within minutes, her best friend had stepped from the Floo in a whirlwind of bushy hair and mile-a-minute chatter that ended with the ever-familiar exasperated question.

"Because I'm Helen Potter," she replied, the familiar words and cheeky, self-deprecating smile appearing without thought as it always had. Hermione sighed, eyes softening as she reached out and clasped Helen's hand.

"We'll figure this out, Helen. Just as we always have."

Helen smiled. "Of course, Hermione."

.

Horcruxes were considered some of the darkest magic for a reason: to make one was to tear your soul apart, to give up the possibility of ever having a soul mate, no matter that the chances were already impossibly low.

To have a mark, your soul had to be _intact_.

In the magical world, any magic that involved the soul was generally considered taboo; it was, ironically in her opinion, the closest Magicals would ever come to agreeing with religious muggles: souls were precious.

Helen had only recognized the mark for what it was due to previous research into Horcruxes.

.

Helen watched fondly as Hermione pulled book after book from her beaded bag, mumbling to herself as she sorted through them. After the bushy-haired witch had unceremoniously torn Helen's shirt off to examine the marking for herself, Helen had endured a ten-minute questioning that would've made Mad-Eye proud before Hermione had dived into research mode with a familiar zeal.

Clearly, she'd been bored with her studies.

Shaking her head, Helen finished buttoning up her shirt and headed to the kitchen. She'd put the kettle on and make some sandwiches; they'd need them before long, there was no doubt about that.

.

Of course, she hadn't expected to turn around from getting fruit from the refrigerator and find herself nearly stepping off a cliff. So much for fruit salad to go with the sandwiches, she thought, glancing down at the container of chopped fruit then back to the wide expanse of the ocean before her.

Wondering if she was back where she'd been before, she turned around – and froze at the sight of the boy who stood not even two feet away from her. Her heart jumped, whether from excitement or fear, she couldn't tell.

Then she smiled, beamed really, in greeting.

.

He had aged, not by much, but it was clear that more time had passed for him than it had for her. He was a little taller, had gained a little weight, and his skin had darkened from being in the sun. But his smile had remained the same, joyful and impish and just the slightest bit pleased with himself.

He also had a tattoo. Helen tilted her head and closed the short distance between them, reaching out to trace the two lines of squiggles that reminded her of waves.

They were fresh, the skin still raised beneath the ink.

.

Suddenly, she realized that beneath her touch, the boy had frozen, not even seeming to breathe.

Emerald eyes flicked up to find gray-blue already watching her, something like reverence softening the intense focus of those eyes on her. With an apologetic tilt to her lips, Helen pulled her hand away and was about to step away when the boy's hand shot out and grabbed her own.

She blinked as he turned her hand around in his, his smile fading as he noticed the Blood Quill scars on the back. Almost sorrowfully, small fingers followed the shape of her own handwriting.

.

The scars on her hand had thrown him. He'd been agitated at the sight, almost restless, until the wind off the ocean tore the tie from her hair and sent the wild curls blowing around her. It was cute, really, how quickly he was distracted by it. Within seconds, he'd twisted his fingers into the dark locks and amused himself, stretching out the curls and watching them spring back into place.

Eventually, at his insistence, she'd sat at his feet and he contented himself with attempting to braid her hair despite the breeze constantly pulling the strands from his hands.

.

Where she'd ended up staying in the village for days previously, this time, Helen was only there for three hours. She'd sat on the cliffside, listening to the sound of the waves crashing to shore, with the boy as her only company, and she'd been… Happy. She'd felt content.

Then, between one blink and the next, as the boy was distracted with something in the distance, she'd found herself back in the kitchen, container empty of fruit and her hair pulled into a sloppy braid. She sighed and leaned back against the cabinet.

Maybe next time she'd get his name.

[~][~][~]

Godric is eager to catch up to his peers.

Without the hindrance of weak lungs and all the risks that came with them, he is throwing himself at the world with a vengeance within weeks. It isn't all play, though; he attends his lessons with the Shaman and learns with the same kind of fervor, maybe more given his motivation.

He wants to see Her again. He _needs_ to see Her again. It has been nearly three moon cycles since he woke alone, Her scent lingering on his blankets, and he _misses_ Her. Desperately.

There is no sun without Her.

.

He sits at the Shaman's side, listening closely to the man's words when something… _changes_. At first, it is like a whisper, quiet as it brushes past him, but the feeling grows until he cannot ignore it; it has an almost physical presence, the way it reaches beneath his skin and tugs at his soul.

He is off, running in the direction of the pull without a second thought because he recognizes this feeling, _knows_ this call.

It is Her soul reaching for his.

He runs until the roar of the ocean drowns out the world.

And there She is.

.

His reckless sprint towards Her slows when he sees her distant, distracted expression. She is as beautiful as he remembers, standing at the cliff's edge, looking far into the distance. He wonders if there is something there, if She is seeing more than his mortal eyes could ever hope to. He hesitates in his approach, stopping just a short distance behind Her.

Was he wrong to follow the call? Did She not actually want him here?

She turns, suddenly, and sees him. Her eyes light up; a wide, happy smile appears.

He can only return the smile with his own.

.

He'd forgotten how it felt to be around Her, to feel Her skin against his own. It is more than just Her power, drifting from Her body to sink into his skin. When She traces his tattoo, he is nearly overwhelmed with giddiness, with the feeling of wholeness that he has only experienced when She is near.

When She pulls away, it isn't the familiar marks on the back of Her hand, reflecting in the sunlight, that has his own hand darting out to capture Hers. It's that he doesn't want to lose that feeling of peace, of being complete.

.

He studies the marks on Her hand eventually, relieved at the similarity to the marks on his skin, at the realization that they are not just another oddity to add to his collection, but words of the Gods. At the same time, he is upset; the words on his skin are as dark as Her hair, like another tattoo that he wears with pride. But the words on her hand are _scars_.

And the thought that someone out there could scar Her, would scar her, frightened him, angered him.

She is his sun. She is not meant to be harmed.

.

The Goddess's hand is held out in offering, a chunk of brightly colored fruit, unrecognizable to him, held between Her fingers. His eyes dart between Her's and Her hand; juice trails down Her fingers to Her arm, Her hand remaining aloft as She smiles in encouragement.

His heart is racing and his hand trembles as he accepts the gift. He is sharing food with a Goddess, he thinks dimly, watching as she chooses her own chunk of fruit and pops it into her mouth.

He mimics her actions without thought. His mouth waters.

He has never tasted anything so sweet.

.

She is not with him for long.

Between one moment and the next, when his attention is pulled away by the sound of his name carrying across the distance between he and his mother, She is gone, slipping through his grasp like the wind.

He lingers there, standing where She sat. He fancies to himself that he can still feel the warmth of her body in the ground where her body had rest. Can still smell the sweetness of her hair, taste the tang of her power on his tongue.

It does little to ease the ache in his soul.

.

Time passes.

Like his village, Godric continues to grow. Under his father's leadership, their village has nearly tripled in size, and despite his relatively young age, Godric is an important figure. Not only is he one of the best warriors they have, his victories inked on his skin, not only is he next in line to be the tribe's spiritual leader, but Godric himself is part of what draws people to their tribe.

With every new addition, his story - the miracle of his existence, the continued appearances of the Goddess - is retold.

Godric is favored by the Gods.

.

He is ten and two summers old. The night is warm, quiet, and sitting outside to admire the sky is a balm to his soul. He has not seen the Goddess in three cycles of the moon. This is not the longest he has gone without seeing Her, but he is… restless.

( _He remembers her last visit: the coolness of her lips as they pressed to his forehead, her pride-filled smile…_ )

There are whispers. From other tribes, from the elements. Rumors of an army steadily marching across the land. He wants to see her, wants the reassurance of her presence.

.

It is not just the possibility of a military threat that has him wanting to see Her.

He is getting older and despite his every intention otherwise, there are hints that he will need to marry eventually. He is hesitant about it, though. His life, his world, has revolved around the Goddess since the day She had first appeared before him. He has no interest in a wife, in children. He wants only to serve, to dedicate himself to his savior.

Is there even room in his heart for a wife when he is already so wholly committed to Her?

[~][~][~]

Cripes, it's been an age and a half since I posted. For the record, nothing is abandoned, even if it takes me an eternity to update.

Also, it's a work in progress, but I'm cross posting my stories on AO3 under the same penname. At some point, I may even extend to wattpad and potentially tumblr if there's enough interest/I get terribly bored.

I realize this is still horrendously short compared to what you were probably hoping for, but I hope you enjoyed it all the same. With all luck, your wait for the next chapter won't be anywhere near as long.

With affection,

-D.


End file.
